Warrior Girl, Rise: Jesus on a Journey

Bear with me on this, with me, and my cinematographic imagination and my utter self-absorption.

I don’t know why, but lately I’ve had this image in my head of being a wanderer, a nomad sort on a long journey through an arid desert with Jesus. It’s an adventure tale of sorts, and kind of lonely, and very gritty. Sand in your teeth kind of gritty.

I picture myself wearing tattered, post-apocalyptic garb with maybe a streak of dirt strategically placed across my cheek. Of course, because this is my daydream, my arms are toned and my abs, cut. And the only longing I have is to follow the Rabbi, who is there with me, just up ahead, wanting me there with him.

My longing for him is deep, and often controversial. To long for him, to follow him, is first of all to trust — something we can all agree I pretty much suck at. But, as someone said to me yesterday on the phone, I shouldn’t say that out loud, lest God should hear and want to prove me wrong. 

To long for and follow him on this journey is many, many things, and first of all to love the “unlovable”. It’s to love all the people the capital-R Righteous say I should not love or that I should love conditionally, as long as they all behave — the LGBTQ community, the Pro-Choicers, the Black Lives Matter campaigners.

To love him and long for him means to spread out my Mad Max-esque robe on the dusty ground, to pull out my tiny sack of crumbs and share them with the very next drag queen I see; it means I give her a hug and the Good News alike. It means I share my public bathroom with her (and hey, even my private one!), and I fear not, because God is God. And oh — there is nothing to fear anyway.

It means the mean girls who seem to never go away, who hurl hurtful, duplicitous acts and venom at me or at people I care about — I have to love them, too. Although, since I am on a journey, I can happily leave them behind with that love and a nice, solid, Bye, Felicia. Thank you, Jesus, for the small things. Let’s keep going. And buh-bye.

The trip brings me to unexpected landmarks, surprises of the most interesting and joyful kind. The unexpected literary agent, found randomly while chatting, who comes to believe in my work and my voice and wants to represent me. The new ideas and successes that are within my zone of passion and talent. The small moments of good food, friends, wine, my husband’s kiss. My son wrapping his small arms around my neck, pulling me closer to smell my face. My daughter’s beautiful smile.

Then there is the darkest journey, albeit with something like a light at the end of the darkened tunnel. I declared this year to be the Year of the Breakthrough, and decided this would be the year I wrote my book. Turns out, I might be writing two, and one of them is the journey back into a life a long time ago, when I was married to my first husband, and had a certain friend who led a tragic life. Jesus is showing me on this journey that yes, child, that marriage actually was abusive. And the reality of that statement comes crashing over me, a wave of clarity and grief alike.

Then there is this calling, this strange thing that maybe Jesus has been leading me to my entire life, when he created me to be the rebel heart that I am, the underdog-sticker-upper-for, the lone voice who calls out the shit in this life. That gets tiring, by the way, being the one who always has to call out the shit. I let a lot go that I shouldn’t because there’s just so damn much of it to call out.

Anyway, I am realizing I am maybe a Story Keeper. That people are somehow compelled to tell me their stories. This does not make me special — it makes them so — and I am simply a witness. In particular, though, people like to tell me their horror stories. The stories of their deepest pains, their horrific abuse, their ultimate betrayals. And the beauty that lies in their healing, or, in the case of my friend with the tragic life, not.

For very long I have taken the long and winding route in order to avoid that which must be walked through — my destiny as this Story Keeper. Because these stories of the most evil of this world can be heavy, and other people’s pain highly disturbing and slightly uncomfortable.

And because sleep.

I like to sleep undisturbed by the imagery of the devil.

But there is also such joy and honor and privilege in hearing and holding these stories, these pains, as if someone had cut a tiny piece of themselves out of their bellies, carved it into the most beautiful of gem stones, and presented it to me in a velvety gift box to keep for them until they know what to do with it. It’s an honor.

And I think that maybe this is why God made me how he did; there is something strong about me, I know. There is something powerful in me, and it’s God. There is a part of me who could possibly live in a post-apocalyptic world, and this image in my head of my tattered robe, the streak on my cheek like war paint, I think I kind of like it, as long as Jesus is there. Maybe I’ll finally get the mohawk I always wanted out of the deal. But only if it will bring out my cheekbones.

I’ve always known my warrior girl was in there. Now maybe it’s time for Warrior Girl to rise.